


A Hive of 221Bs (for Fictober)

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth, M/M, MCD- Mary Watson and infant daughter, Past Drug Use, This is Chap 11 feel free to skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-23 21:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 6,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16167302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: 221B collection (221 words ending in one starting with b) for the Fictober prompt challenge.  The challenge does not require 221B format, but it does have a required sentence to incorporate. This sentence is the title of each chapter.Chapter 14 is also part of the These Stories Belong to Us 30 Days of Fanfic Collection for Monday, October 15, 2018. See that collection for details on the documentary and Kickstarter.





	1. "Can you feel this?"

He has waxed poetic on the state of my hands more than is fitting, both for the sake of propriety as well as for accuracy; it is his hands which are by far the more remarkable. They hold a weapon steady to fire, true-to-target, at a remarkable distance… and yet wield a pen with an equally remarkable grace (though I am reluctant to admit it, lest I give my own hand away in the telling).

In truth, both talents have saved me— thwarting violence directed upon my person and providing the notoriety which has kept me in work— freed from my penchant for self destruction. My hands are not prone to acts of healing where my own self is concerned.

A relief, certainly, to be tended to by one so skilled, but there is far more than this.

As my hand rests in his and he numbs the area between finger and thumb, prods alongside torn skin with a needle and queries, “Can you feel this? Is it numb?” I cannot help but wonder what exactly it is I do feel. It is a singular emotion, one to which I am quite unaccustomed. He looks at me with an uncertain gaze, as I have neglected to answer the question, lost in the moment. I nod, and answer, “Yes. You may begin.”


	2. "People like you have no imagination"

“That… would never have occurred to me, Holmes.”

“Of course not. People like you have no imagination.” The words seemed innocuous enough to my ears and I’ve said far worse to the Yarders, on numerous occasions, but there remained something in Lestrade’s countenance which gave me pause.

He looked at me quite directly, with a shocking earnestness. “If we in the official police force lack imagination, it is because we are trained to rely solely upon the evidence,” he replied. “Is this not one of the lessons which you have sought to impress upon us? Or has Doctor Watson chosen to put false words in your mouth when expressing your desire to never theorise before facts?”

I blinked in surprise. “I had not anticipated your following my counsel.” For I had not.

How to explain the intricacies of deduction? The myriad potentialities which flit about within my mind like a swarm of insects, pestering me with the seemingly endless possibilities, until they are eliminated as the facts present themselves. It had been a kindness to advise anyone wishing to take on this profession to disregard them, for it is not a fate I would wish upon another. The noise is grating and endless until the creatures depart one by one and at last all I hear is a single remaining buzz.


	3. How can I trust you?

Another shift in his chair, eyes fixed upon the crackling fire. “You work for Scotland Yard. How can I trust you?”

I bristled at the very thought. “I do not work for Scotland Yard. I’m a consulting detective. I work for myself alone and am not obligated to report to the police, save at my own discretion.” 

I had hoped it reassurance enough. Still, he hesitated.

These moments are dangerous ones. The temptation is great, but I’ve more than my own security holding me back. Many would dismiss me from serious consideration, given my Bohemian ways. ‘That is all it is’, they’d reason, ‘a penchant for the eccentric’. Gregson is likely quite aware, Lestrade would never entertain the notion, Jones has not a clue— I could take a companion for the evening right in front of him, he’d be none the wiser. Hopkins is… well, much remains to be seen regarding Hopkins. He could very well be a companion to take, should I wish it. But to speak plainly to the client who sits before me? A risk I would gladly suffer, but for the scrutiny Watson would face— the strain upon his marriage and consequently upon his health. That he would be innocent of the charge and I guilty, the supreme irony. So I remain silent. I think it best.


	4. Will that be all?

The tread of footsteps upon the stair dragged me away from my swirling thoughts.

“Will that be all?” my tireless landlady asked with a smirk, gathering up the serving tray from which I had removed every available scrap of food. Post-case hunger was upon me, soon to be followed by post-case lassitude. Watson would be arriving shortly, however, so I had my hopes that reaction might yet be postponed while I shared with him the details of the newly-solved case. Workman’s logic, but he doubtless would be spinning it into some romantic tale. I frowned as she tucked the tray beneath her arm, My hunger was conspiring to make me an exceedingly poor host.

“If you should happen to have additional portions on hand—“

She smiled sweetly. “It doesn’t take a consulting detective to notice Doctor Watson joins you most Thursday evenings. I have prepared extra, of course.”

I do not know what I would do without dear Mrs Hudson. She has a knack for interrupting me at the most inopportune moments, but it does serve to break my isolation into more manageable periods by simple visits designed to look entirely utilitarian. This does not fool me in the least, but I remain grateful.

I stretched my every nerve and could just hear a hansom approaching. I waited for the bell.


	5. "Take what you need"

The conversation went something like this:

“So. Take what you need—”

“Enough to confirm my suspicions.”

“— leaving the rest for the official force?”

“Should they know where to look. I wouldn’t wish to impede their investigation.” 

“You intend to burn this substance, I presume.”

“Having first taken reasonable precautions. Opened window and door should suffice.”

I recall I’d scraped off residue which clung to Tregennis’s lamp, placing it within a small envelope. The rest of the evening’s events are considerably more hazy. 

I do know three things. I know Watson pulled me from that deathtrap, filled with far more potent fumes than ever I could have imagined. I know I apologised for having put his life at risk. And I know, in my delirium, I used his Christian name. 

I cannot tell with certainty if he heard it or no, but it was no quiet thing. I shouted his name. I shouted it with all the strength of someone whose cherished companion vanished into thin air, for this is exactly what I believed he’d done. 

I’ve never counted psycho-active medicines amongst my vices, lest my senses be compromised, but I routinely bring my Moroccan case on long journeys. On a private outing, amongst the ancient dwellings and abandoned tin mines, I discarded it betwixt two craggy stones upon the beach.


	6. "I heard enough, this ends now."

I apologised once more at Baker Street for endangering his life—an unacceptable risk, made considerably more so for having placed a dear friend in harm’s way. He had made no mention of my lack of propriety, but I could scarce believe he had not heard me. “I also deeply regret any other... inappropriate gestures... I might have made,” said I.

He gave a brusque nod.

“The drug caused a certain degree of…. I was responding to what I thought was reality, but was, in fact, a twisted interpretation of events. I fear I may have reacted in a rather haphazard way. I do hope that you will—“

“I heard enough, this ends now. There is no need for further discussion. Yes, I heard you. No one else could have, save myself, and I did not take offense. Do not let it trouble you any longer.”

“I see. Thank you, _Watson_.” I also found I had little else to say. He did not wish to speak of it, nor did I, lacking words to convey whatever it was I wished to impart. That he meant a great deal to me was obvious, surely the rest must be equally so. Though perhaps not. Of all the talents Watson possesses, observational skill was not one of them which Divine Providence had chosen to bestow.


	7. "No worries, we still have time"

“The very same room her sister…” Watson puffed out his chest. “Well, she shall have fewer worries knowing in the morning we shall be joining her at Stoke Moran.”

“I intend to leave her _no_ worries. We still have time, Watson. The last train leaves in an hour.”

“What shall we bring?”

“A revolver.” Watson patted his coat-pocket, indicating the need for that particular item had been anticipated. “And…” his eyes darted around the room, considering my next request, “a toothbrush.”

What followed is well-known. I’m told by Watson’s literary agent it remains the most popular of his stories. Still, what was known to myself alone were the dark thoughts which haunted me during that interminable stretch of time.

I suspected a snake, given the efficiency and elusiveness of the poison and need for a rope, but was prepared for novel techniques for the second victim. Vents could just as easily serve for poisonous gas, a less detectable creature (spider?) might be employed. Joining her at Stoke Moran might take on a different meaning.

If Roylott knew full-well of our presence, he’d murder his stepdaughter for her betrayal— and we’d never be found. It was well I should be consumed with such thoughts, for never once did I consider Watson and myself, alone in the darkness, the only sound our breathing.


	8. I know you do

When the Swiss youth arrived, bearing a letter upon hotel stationery, I knew.

“I have to return to the hotel.”

“I know you do.”

I hastily requested the messenger accompany me to Rosenlaui, and Watson meet me there. I did not trust the boy, only content with my fate secure in the knowledge that my dear friend was not in immediate danger. Watson made as if to speak, then turned up the path toward Englischer Hof alone.

The youth vanished and, leaning against the sheer rockface, I waited. A figure was visible upon the spray-slicked path.  
“Might you permit a note?” I shouted above the din. “Watson shall return from his fool’s errand and attempt to catch me up. I shouldn’t wish him never to know what became of me.”

“Indeed, it would be entertaining to read a proper eulogy, Mr Holmes, featuring my prominent role. Of course you may.” I hastily scrawled as Moriarty lamented, “A formal duel would have suited, but I am too tired for elegance. My only wish is that you trouble me no more.’’

“I have to pursue you. To do what I must to counter your every step.”

“I know you do,” he mocked, and I found myself charging him, armed though he was —myself with nothing save my walking stick and knowledge of Baritsu.


	9. You shouldn’t have come here

_You shouldn’t have come here. You should have clambered down from your hiding place, or called out, instead of watching from 200 feet up. Coward._

If I had done, there would be no need to rise every two hours to ensure my limbs still functioned in these inhospitable temperatures. I’d be back at Baker Street beside the fire or, if he had chosen to join me, there would have been two of us generating warmth upon this hillside. And not in some prurient manner.

_How much of this is disabling Moriarty’s network and how much your need to disappear in the most dramatic manner possible?_

 

I will never forget Watson’s face upon finding my Alpine-stock and the message tucked beneath my cigarette case. 

Holding that note in my hands, after my unexpected survival, I found myself contemplating life, death, and the precarious nature of it all. Watson, his wife, their child on-the-way. Their future and the complications I would certainly create. Not only was I better-suited to this task alone, but perhaps in subsequent endeavors as well. Mindful, I rewrote that note several times until it betrayed far less, and began my climb upward.

Could anyone have asked for a more rewarding exit? Watson retracing my steps admirably, to confirm my sacrifice had rid the world of a most terrible blight.


	10. You think this troubles me?

“My visitors have lost something they did not wish to lose, or wish to lose something they cannot avoid. But you, my friend…?”

“I believe I have managed both.”

“With the same person, yes?”

I paused. “Yes, with the same person, I’m afraid.”

He sipped his milk tea and nudged a bowl toward me.

“It is in our desire for a specific outcome that we suffer. I offer...exceptional advice, for an exceptional person.” I took my offered bowl and held it in my lap. “Self-hatred, fear... manifestations of delusion and dukkha. Enemies of happiness. Perhaps you should inform him of your situation, and let him decide what path it is he wishes to take.”

I was speechless.

“You think this troubles me? I am a student of human nature. Gyalwa Yang Gönpa writes of Ma ning— the abiding breath between male exhalation and female inhalation.”

“I meant no offense. I am quite unaccustomed to being read so easily. Typically, I do the reading.”

“Yes. But far more importantly…the issue you face is one of rebirth. You have pretended to be dead so long, you feel as if you truly are. I say you live. Your troubles will find you; there is no need to hunt them down. Return to the things and people you love, and the joy they bring.”


	11. I will never forget!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note canonical MCD of Mary Watson and perhaps/perhaps not canonical death of their infant daughter (childbirth-related death of mother and daughter)

‘Mary Watson has died’. Why does that sound kinder to my ears than ‘Mary Watson is dead’? Mycroft’s telegram stated the former. One could almost delude one’s self into believing it some event in the long-distant past, until the subsequent line no amount of semantics could disguise: ‘Daughter unlikely to survive‘.

I know John would have been with Mary during her final moments. I cannot comprehend what it would be to see someone you love beyond saving. And having lost not one, but two? No, I am getting ahead of myself. The child might yet live. A reminder to us of her mother’s exceptional pluck. It was so long ago that we accompanied her to Thaddeus Sholto’s home, but I will never forget! I am, perhaps, the only other to know how remarkable Mrs Watson was, yet my condolences would be most unwelcome.

A second telegram arrives, and I fear the worst, but it says ‘You are a fool to think he would not be grateful for one less loss, regardless of circumstance.’ Mycroft’s damnable omniscience strikes again. I have already been planning my return, for there was truth in the Dalai Lama’s words. Colonel Sebastian Moran is awaiting me in London.

It would be three months yet before I found myself in a hansom, directing the cabbie to 221 Baker.


	12. Who could do this?

“Who could do this?” Colonel Sebastian Moran surveyed the charred remains of a chemical laboratory in Montpellier. 

“Law enforcement can be quite ruthless. Why when I was—“

“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant who is capable of tracking us to here, of getting through our security. Get me a list of new employees!”

Woodhouse shrugged. “Paperwork would have been destroyed in the fire. I recall a research scientist we had at the lab a few months ago, though. Simple fellow. Working on coal-tar derivatives.”

“Tall?”

“Six feet?”

“Take precautions. I need to get back to London. I’ve an appointment.”

Moran collapsed his paper, safely in his armchair in the club’s sitting room. He had been wise to leave the Continent; it was no longer safe, as evidenced by Woodhouse’s arrest in Arles. 

_I’m the only one left. What was it he said in those stories? Once you rule out the impossible you are left with the truth? Well, Holmes has to be alive. No one else could have done this so neatly, and in such a short amount of time._

They’d meet again. Holmes would turn up somewhere in London and Moran would be ready. While he was waiting, why not enjoy himself? But he needed money. Well, there was always a card game at the Bagatelle.


	13. Try harder, next time

I rose. “I only agreed to inform you of my whereabouts to obtain access to funds, in exchange for intelligence concerning Khartoum. And, occasionally, to assure you of my health and well-being. What I did not bargain for were telegrams filled with unsolicited advice, like some ridiculous alienist-philosopher!”

“One telegram. And your emotions were both conspicuous and compromising your assigned task.”

“No, they weren’t! On both counts!”

“Try harder, next time, Sherlock. And do pay him a visit.”

“Perhaps I already have. Perhaps he did not wish to see me.”

“You most certainly have not.”

“You find that reaction impossible to imagine? But yes, I have made no attempt to contact him upon my return. I wouldn’t be surprised if he punched me in the face for it. I made no attempt to contact him when I was travelling either. I wrote to him. Many times. But how can one write such a letter? And then to learn he is twice-bereaved—“

“Thrice-bereaved, Sherlock. Yours is another death. But it can be undone. Do not hesitate”

“Watson is a more emotional man than you or I, Mycroft.”

“Is he?”

I had no doubt I was being far more emotional than I had intended. “Very well then. I shall observe him and then I shall reveal myself to him. Now let me be.”


	14. Some people call this wisdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 221B has been submitted to the These Stories Belong To Us Collection for fic posted on Monday, October 15, 2018. You can check out the collection on AO3 and the Tumblr at fanficdoc.

_Some people call this wisdom. Surveying the terrain, as it were. Reconnaissance. Others would call it fear._

Was I afraid? Yes. 

I had bungled this. Badly. I would approach him incognito. If he were in good spirits, appeal to his pawky humor and make light of it all. Explain how critical it was to my success to have absolutely no indication that I was alive. Watson is a military man. Surely he would understand the need for absolute secrecy in carrying out a mission. Then, I would regale him with tales of the Far East. The Frozen North. The Forbidden City. The ground I had tread where an Englishman has scarcely ever set foot. He may bear ill-will toward me for my distance and deceit, but he cannot resist hearing of the adventures of Sigerson.

Now, what titles for my decrepit bibliophile? Britain, Worship. Catullus— immoral and immortal. 

I offer Watson #96:  
If anything pleasing to silent sepulchers  
is to be done by our grief,  
by this longing we renew old loves  
and we lament sent-away friendships.

But, ashamed, I think only of #48:  
If I could play at kissing your honeyed-eyes  
as often as I wished to,  
300,000 games would not exhaust me.

I stared in the mirror and dabbed more spirit gum beneath my scraggly beard.


	15. I thought you had forgotten

“Colonel Moran! Good to see you again!”

“My dear Milner! And here I thought you’d forgotten me.”

“Never! You’re always welcome! I’m afraid your usual partner’s…indisposed.”

I smiled. “He won’t be joining us for years yet.” _If he makes it through gaol in one piece._ “I’m sure I can make a few new friends, though.”

“Young Adair over there could learn a thing or two from someone like you. Due to come off his losing streak any time now.”

“Is that so? Always good to play the odds.” _Or improve them._ I headed to his table.

“Adair, my good man, fancy a rubber?”

“Colonel! I’d be honoured.”

It was clear why Adair was losing; he was playing an honest game. I did my best to compensate. We took home £420 that evening, and he was none the wiser. 

When we met again weeks later, he was quite eager to join me once more, and watched me carefully. After he played miserably enough to lose £5, despite my best efforts, he asked if we could discuss something privately, at his home in Park Lane.

I’m no fool. 

I watched him from across the street as he took out his ledgers, tallying how much ill-gotten gain was his and how much mine. I solved the issue with a bullet.


	16. This is gonna be so much fun!

“Got y’self another case, Mr ‘Olmes?” 

“Not exactly, Billy, but an adventure nonetheless. First, I’ll need you to retrieve an item from a Monsieur Oscar Meunier. A guinea for speed. Mind you, it’s a bit heavy… and quite fragile.”

“The ‘Regs and me...” Billy stopped in the doorway and coughed a bit. It was good to be missed. “Well, we’s so glad you’re back, Mr ‘Olmes.”

“Thank you, Billy.”

He nodded his head sharply and scampered off.

He returned with Wiggins, each boy grasping opposite sides of the package. I paid them a guinea apiece, then sent Wiggins away and called for Mrs Hudson. Some might think it reckless to ask a mere boy and an elderly woman to take on this next burden, but I trusted them implicitly. Moreso than any Yarder.

The plan was simple. Tuck the bust securely within my dressing gown—the faded mouse one, should it become damaged— and create a convincing silhouette for Moran’s target practice. He’d aim for my head, of this I was certain; so long as my accomplices approached on all fours to rotate the facsimile, their safety was ensured.

“This could go throughout the night, so I believe it best if you work in shifts.”

They both were more than eager to assist.

“This is gonna be so much fun!” said Billy.


	17. I’ll tell you but you’re not gonna like it.

The paper’s description of the body might as well have been a signed confession from Moran (it could have been done by no other...I had no need to examine the scene), and it was clear to me my purpose in heading toward 427 Park Lane was not professional, but personal. I was confident Watson, who had retained his interest in the work after my...departure, couldn’t help but be drawn to the Adair case. The confirmation by my Irregulars that he was indeed present made it seem as if fate were drawing us together.

“You want to know who done it?” A tall, thin policeman, attempting a rather pathetic disguise with his coloured glasses, was speaking to the eager crowd of onlookers gathered round. “I’ll tell you but you’re not gonna like it.” I ignored his babble about anarchists, the severe temperature drop resulting in the rise of the All-England Women’s Hockey Association. That is when I spotted Watson in person for the first time in so many years. I was so stunned that I must admit, I froze and simply watched him. The grief was easy to observe, as was his attempts to overcome it. Though I certainly should have, in truth I had not orchestrated for him to back into me and knock down several of my books.


	18. You should have seen it

I followed him. Of course I did. And without stopping to form a serviceable excuse. I found myself knocking upon his door whilst hastily fumbling for some explanation as to why an old, hobbled book peddler should track a stranger all the way to Kensington. I mumbled something about my having overreacted and wishing to apologise. A weak justification, and he knew it. I sought reinforcement with my imaginary bookshop, located off Church Street. Had I been just...wandering through Park Lane? It is so very clear when one wishes to be found out.

I called his attention to a small gap upon the shelf, and as his back was turned I stretched out to my full height and removed my side-whiskers. Once more, my tale is told more or less accurately in the public account. I reached for brandy and offered my apologies. When he had quite recovered, I told him, briefly, of my adventures.

“You should have seen it, Watson! Pilgrims performing prostrations, incense burners taller than a man bringing forth their smoke-scented clouds to challenge the ever-present juniper. Sutra chanters who, for a few tossed coins, would recite from the sacred texts. Women with their long tresses smeared in yak butter and men with tassels of red yarn braided through their hair and a dagger upon their belt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe a debt to tibettravel.org for their beautiful pictures and descriptions of Barkhor Street. Often their language was far richer and more fitting for this story than mine and I'd have just plunked the whole thing down into the fic if I could have.


	19. Oh, please, like this is the worst I have done

It was immediately apparent I had placed my foot squarely within my mouth, and once my brain had managed to catch up I found there escaped from out that be-footed mouth a quiet, “Oh.”

“Please....”

Like this? Is the worst I have done in this three-year-long absence…Are the flaws inherent in my very character which I attempt to conceal to be dredged to the surface? I know too well Watson would have given anything to have been there with me, and I with him. And, yet, what do I choose to say? I am ashamed. 

Though the original act was rapidly shifting from ill-advised to unconscionable, it remained in the telling where I was cementing my fate. There were other things— far more important things— I wished him to know of my time in Tibet.

Not of the bitter cold, nor the hunger felt keenly even by one as accustomed to self-denial as I, nor the acts I had committed which required perhaps more moral justification than I had a right to lay claim.

“Watson, this is… somewhat remarkable, but I assure you of its veracity. The cobbled path which hosted the market I have described, as well as my lodgings, was called Barkhor Street. I spent every moment alongside a cruel reminder I was not where I longed to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still not sure if this works and I've tried to rearrange the sentences around the “mandatory” phrase many times. I could modify it if I wanted to. The rules are fairly lax. But even though I modified the punctuation ( which I try to avoid as well) I hope to at least preserve the words themselves. Oh well. Time to post and move on. LMK what you think.


	20. I hope you have a speech prepared

He turned away, as if my countenance pained him. “I should allow myself to feel only gratitude. You are alive. That is more than enough.”

“My dearest friend, recently I’ve spent time alongside philosophers and mystics… unintentionally reinforcing my Bohemian reputation. That aspect of the journey has not left me unscathed.” I hoped for a smile. None came. “I’ve learned allowing one’s self leave to feel or not feel a thing is utter nonsense. Tell me what it is you feel. And I’ll endeavor to simply listen. For I have done you a grave injustice.”

“You acted as you thought best, perched upon that fearsome precipice. That is all any of us can do.” Watson shook his head. “Besides. We are not men of words. We are men of action.”

“Then I offer you the gift of action. This Adair affair is far from over. A starring player will make a second entrance upon the stage.” 

I removed my index from its shelf, turning, again, to ‘M’. “I hope you have a speech prepared,” I mumbled to the smirking photograph. “We could use some light entertainment.” 

I faced Watson. “I have a piece of work for us both which, if brought to a successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man’s life on this planet. Tonight, we hunt a wild beast.”


	21. Impressive, truly

From here on out, there is much Watson does not address or simply manufactures. And rightly so. But what is impressive, truly, is when he writes of my leading him silently through a maze of streets and back-alleys, past mews and stables and deserted yards, only to arrive in Camden House. Then, in that musty old building with the peeling wallpaper, I direct his gaze toward our old rooms, ‘the starting-point of so many of your little fairy-tales, so we might see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise you’. I will have you know I did no such thing. 

Instead, I turned to him and said, “I owe you a distinct lack of surprises, Watson. I confess I had once thought it charming.”

“It was charming, in its way,” said he.

“You’re too kind! I now prefer openness to secrecy, having exhausted my allotment of deception. We shall take a circuitous route, as I expect, hidden amongst the evening street crowds, none other than Colonel Sebastian Moran— the one responsible for the death of Ronald Adair— and the Late Professor Moriarty’s right hand man. Our destination is Camden House. Once there, you shall witness the murder of a wax dummy of myself, like me in every aspect, save its possessing far more brainpower.


	22. I know how you love to play games

Watson was right. We are men of action. I grasped his wrist and guided him through the darkened corridor, whispering close in his ear, “It really is rather like me, is it not?” As intimate a gesture as I dared, but upon observing a certain welcoming aspect, I longed to try more.

_I know how you love to play games, Holmes, but this is an exceptionally dangerous one. Have you not just learned your lesson concerning ill-advised decisions?_

It had been my intention to quit these urges during my travels. To give Watson a more conventional life. “I am sorry,” I said once more, in the safety of darkness. “For the loss of your wife and child. The loss of all the promise _that_ life held.” My emphasis on ‘that’ was...unexpected.

Watson was silent for some time before uttering, “You think I… yes, you think had I not been turned widower, I’d have prefered your continued absence.”

My turn for silence.

“When you left, you thought yourself _gracefully_ stepping aside to let me become a father! Dignified. Not someone who… followed you down dimly-lit alleys into empty houses to track a killer. You said Moran had some flaw which isolated him from respectable life. I’m no murderer, but that aspect applies to us both.”


	23. This is not new, it only feels like it is

“My Mary was a wise woman.”

“That she was.”

“I’ll have no platitudes from you, Holmes.”

I fell silent.

“My Mary was a wise woman. She gave me leave to chase criminals down alleyways because she understood to do so was within my nature, and acknowledging this would not take me away from her but rather, brought me closer. To all the things which made me feel whole. To all the things I loved. And she knew she would always be part of that love. As will you, Holmes.”

“I wish you would not include me in that sentiment, Watson.”

“However do you mean?”

“To speak of me in terms of love.”

“I see nothing amiss. And this is not new.”

“It only feels like it is acceptable because you do not see it as I do. My lens is distorted. I do not see things in the same manner as others.”

“Certainly not— you see far more.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“But Mary saw far more than you.”

I let him humble me.

“You believe I chose Mary for what she represented, rather than for the woman herself. If true, she’d have been gravely disappointed. A husband and wife… have occasion to discuss things. She was far less concerned than I. In time, I learned she knew best.”


	24. You know this, you know this to be true.

“I’ve found many men attractive—even acknowledged this publicly in my stories—but I’ve not disclosed I’ve loved a fair number of them. And if I love Mary as well, it should not be taken as proof I loved either any less. You— I certainly felt this way about you, but believed you counted yourself above such emotions. Now, I feel I may have been in error. I witnessed what seemed to be cause, but was actually effect.”

I am glad I was incapable of viewing the expression of shocked ignorance I must have presented. Doubtless Watson managed it somehow, for there was a smile in his voice as he said, “I shall not say something akin to ‘You know this, you know this to be true,’ for the very last thing I should wish to do is speak for you on such a delicate matter. But, it is a near thing. So, what say you?”

“I say it’s a remarkably accurate deduction.” I moved closer to him, taking his hand in mine, grateful for the darkness to conceal my blush, when I heard an echoing creak. It could only be Moran, seeking our hiding spot for his own. I placed my hand upon Watson’s lips with quivering fingers and we both saw within the blackness a crouching figure just a shade blacker.


	25. Go forward, do not stray

As he moved forward with single-minded purpose— hunched low, the light hitting his face as he raised the grimy window— it was apparent he was entirely unaware of our presence. _Go forward, do not stray. Ye shall not turn aside to the right hand nor to the left._ Though I suspected Moran was not taking his technique for attempted murder from Deuteronomy, Joshua, Proverbs or Kings.

I waited patiently for his shot, then sprung upon him. He was a large, powerful man, and I was grateful Watson was but a moment from striking him with the butt of his revolver. We both held him in place as I summoned aid with my whistle. 

“You fiend! You clever fiend! You cunning fiend!” said he.

“I see words escape you, Colonel!”

“You may or may not have just cause for arresting me,” he said to the officers, “but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of this,” he hesitated, “ _person_. If I am in the hands of the law, let things be done in a legal way.”

“Ah, your eloquence has returned! I had been hoping for a speech! Come, Watson! Let us retire to my sitting room. That is, if you don’t mind a draught. I’m afraid my window is broken.”


	26. But if you cannot see it, is it really there?

His words, my actions, his responses, all circling round my mind. What had we been moving inexorably toward within that darkness? Something like love...but no, not love, for in truth we _already_ had love, of that I am certain. Something like attraction. Dare I say, like passion? Impossible to define, to confirm, whatever was manifesting between us— but if you cannot see it, is it really there? If you cannot hear it, nor smell it, nor leave it to any empirical evidence gathered from infallible senses— how can you ever be certain of its existence? And certainty was a requirement. 

He had been direct. Remarkably so. And yet, I was still incapable of taking those words at face value as we sat quietly in the cab on our way back to Baker Street. He turned toward me, and I felt the heat of a blush once more. It was humiliating, to appear so weak next to one so strong. I had pushed my emotions down so relentlessly that it was no surprise they should find their way out in strange ways during unguarded moments. I resented it nonetheless— the relinquishing of control. It was then that he took my hand and kissed it gently. It was never a question, between the two of us, who was the braver.


	27. Remember, you have to remember

Up all seventeen steps without a word, though Watson couldn’t help but chuckle as the seventh squeaked beneath his weight, as always. Mrs Hudson had lit a fire in anticipation of our return.

“Remember.”

“You have to—”

“Remember. All that I said.”

“But, when you said—”

“Holmes. Are you implying that I do not know my own feelings on the matter?”

“Certainly not. I’m merely… Well… in truth, I have no idea what I am seeking to accomplish.”

“Do not be uncertain on my behalf. If on your own behalf, then by all means take the time to assess your feelings. The confidence you demonstrated at Moran’s capture, in addition to being rather compelling, led me to an incorrect assessment.”

“You are confusing the end of a case with the beginning of something else entirely. That they should occur at the same time does not make said confidence transferable.”

Watson gave a firm nod. “Well then. My only concern was your labouring under the misapprehension I would not reciprocate your interest. We should let it be for now and discuss other matters.” He smiled and sat down in his old armchair. “Mrs Hudson has kept up your rooms admirably. There is not a trace of dust.”

“Brother Mycroft had requested she preserve the rooms as — no! No, this is bootless!”


	28. I felt it. You know what I mean.

“I’m not suggesting we pretend we’ve nothing to discuss. I’m suggesting you first consider what you want, or do not want… privately.”

“Unnecessary! I know what I want! There is no logical reason why we should not proceed!”

“You are apprehensive.”

“No, I am perfectly willing to enter into a...more...physical aspect of…”

“I felt it. You know what I mean.” He sighed. “Well, we agree you are open to the possibility. That is all we need know for the time being.”

“Watson, I—

“I would quite prefer ‘John’.”

“John, I… John.” It felt extraordinary, deliberately addressing him in that more intimate manner. I wanted to repeat the name several times. Use it at breakfast over the morning paper. ‘John, please pass the marmalade.’ ‘Tea, John?’ Our sitting casually together during the morning meal was hardly a novel occurrence, but my mind traced this seemingly commonplace moment backward in time. We’d have been arriving at the table simultaneously, after a night spent together. Possibly. Probably. That would be my preference, in any case. But his… John’s, John’s! John’s past associations might not be in keeping with the dyadic implications of a shared room. Yet another point to address in this wholly new arrangement. And what of Mrs Hudson? Any observant woman would notice we were sharing far more than breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have changed the sentence with dyadic in it six times now and I may yet change it again. I have used vincular, coalescent, copular, conjugative and syndetic. Some of these are from grammar or math, and some don’t even exist in adjective form. I'm going for Watson never having stayed overnight because that’s a couples thing to do. Of course I need a pedantic-as-hell word, because Holmes is burying his discomfort in language, but I haven’t decided which word will ultimately win this battle. Opinions welcomed. There comes a time when you just have to post the thing as is and move forward.


	29. At least it can’t get any worse

One of my worries had been removed. And by removed, I mean had increased tenfold. 

Mrs Hudson was fully aware of the situation in which we found ourselves. 

We had scarcely done more than confess our interest to one another, yet all the same she had brought up supper— having prepared a careful mix of both our favourites. It was transparent. And because she knew I knew, she winked at me!

At least it can’t get any worse in that respect. She found it somewhat amusing, which I should find condescending in the extreme, were it not for the fact I found it so as well. 

I had made a habit of being unconventional, and yet here I was, still standing on the precipice of the relationship, alternating between eagerness and hesitancy. I was not afraid in any truly limiting sense; I was simply determined to do this correctly. And therein lay a hesitancy which must have been clear as day. 

Ever since she delicately removed the charred remains of Watson’s...John’s… tennis shoes from the fireplace and had disposed of them whilst on holiday in Kent, I knew she had no qualms about our law-breaking for the public good. Apparently that extended toward the private good as well. I looked at the tray once more. She had even made biscuits.


	30. Do we really have to do this again?

Upon offering Billy and Wiggins a guinea apiece for the delivery, I heard a rather put-upon grumble.

“Do we really have to do this again?”

“A precaution. Count Sylvius was a big game hunter. They’ve similar modus operandi.” I removed the bust. “This one’s by Tavernier. I hadn’t wished to inform Meunier of his work’s fate, so I contracted another artist.”

“Was that it, or did you just enjoy another sitting?”

“Watson, while there are things I am quite vain about, I assure you my profile is not one of them.” 

Palpable tension. A flash of discomfort that I should, of necessity, refer to John as ‘Watson’, and Billy’s uncertainty if one in his position might laugh at his employer’s expense. Wiggins obliterated both concerns, laughing so boisterously everyone was obliged, then relieved, to join in.

Once alone, I attempted to reassure. “Is it different… John… when facing one who does not merely wish to avoid capture, but wishes me dead... given our deepening bond?”

“Sherlock... there’s scarcely _room_ for an increase in worry witnessing you placing yourself in danger. I pray you only take necessary risks.”

“Well, had he known I was the dainty thing he chivalrously handed a dropped parasol to this morning…”

He sighed. “So, we are to witness the destruction of another perfectly good bust.”


	31. I’ve waited so long for this.

“I’ve waited so long for this.”

”As have I.” 

John raised his eyes to meet mine and smiled. “And just in time! We’re nearly out of that foul-smelling vinegar, oak and tobacco concoction of yours.” He lifted the latch which separated the hives from the garden to join me, though still at a prudent distance. “I don’t expect I’ll ever get used to them, but I knew they’d get used to you... eventually.”

“Well, you can testify as to my slow-acting, yet irresistible, charm.” I returned the super to the hive. “Pity I couldn’t simply perform some remarkable service for _this_ queen to earn her trust with as little effort as it had taken for the human variety.”

“How long has it been?”

“Four hours, John! Four hours and not a single sting!”

“You’d think they’d do it out of boredom.”

“Ah! Yet another way in which we prove similar!”

“Enough with the bees! Time for bed.”

“But it is another hour till darkness stakes its claim upon the world, and I’m far from tired,”

“I did not say time for sleep, Sherlock. I’ve been watching those graceful hands and forearms of yours arranging and rearranging those slat boards going on four hours now. I choose my words with a writer’s care, and the word I chose was bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah and so we come to the last chapter! All comments welcome, and I hope this was as fun to read as it was to write. I did manage to keep to schedule, more or less, and did the prompts in order and in the original words...though I will confess to playing fast and loose with how they appeared on the page. This was great fun, and I'd like to thank the organizer of Fictober 2018 and all the folks who left comments— my sustinence. :)


End file.
